The Cubes
by the grene kni3t
Summary: Ensign Chekov is curious about lunch, and discovers a disturbing secret about his new shipmates.


Disclaimer: Paramount owns _Star Trek_.

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Every few months, when the warp drive of the USS _Enterprise_ needed recalibration, Captain Kirk liked to let a few of his helm and navigation officers do the work. His belief was that his helmsmen and navigators would be better at their jobs if they had some idea of the power and complexity behind their control consoles. Chief Engineer Scott, on the other hand, subscribed to the firm belief that disaster was imminent if anything in a yellow shirt got near his "bairns." In time, the two stubborn men had come to a compromise: the captain's command officers would perform the calibration, and Scotty would send one of his best men to perform some trivial Engineering task—with the understanding that he would keep an eye on the others and ensure they didn't—touch—_anythin'_.

"Don't touch that," said Lieutenant Kyle automatically, glancing up from the transporter circuit he was ostensibly refitting.

"I wasn't _going_ to touch it!" answered Lieutenant Kevin Riley with a touch of annoyance. He had spent all morning checking and re-checking relative sidereal position coordinates, and he still wasn't more than halfway through the spiral arm. He gave another wistful glance to the red button he hadn't been thinking about pressing, and then turned his attention to the upper deck of Engineering, where Lieutenant Hikaru Sulu was double-checking the spectral shift values of several reference stars. "Hey, Sulu," he shouted, "how's it coming?"

"Slowly," the helmsman replied with a wry smile. He looked down at the corner opposite Riley, where Ensign Pavel Chekov had one eye on a viewer and the other on a cumbersomely long printout. "What about you, Chekov? How are you doing with those compensatory gravitational calculations?"

"It will be several more hours. The numbers must be accurate to within seventeen significant figures." He spoke stiffly and formally, choosing his words with care. It was only Chekov's third week on the _Enterprise_, and while he already excelled at his duties, he was still uncomfortable in casual environments.

"Well, then,"—Sulu swung himself onto the ladder and hopped easily down onto the lower deck—"why don't we break for lunch?"

Riley stuck his hands into his pockets and took a big step away from the computer he had been staring at. "Nobody has ever," he drawled, "said anything that I have been happier to hear."

Sulu grinned. "I thought as much. Chekov?"

The ensign started a little, nearly dropping his printout. "Um, yes. Lunch would be . . . most welcome."

"Join us for lunch, Mr. Kyle?"

"Certainly," said the Englishman.

Sulu pressed the wall communications panel. "Galley? Lunch for four to Engineering Level Three."

Chekov had finally wandered over to join the others, and by now he was glancing about in confusion at the table that was not present on the Engineering deck. "But where . . . ?"

"Mr Scott always says these floors are clean enough to eat from," said Kyle.

"Then I guess we'll prove him right," Sulu agreed. "You don't have any problem with sitting cross-legged?"

"Of course not."

Two yeomen in red dresses entered carrying trays. "Wonderful," exclaimed Riley, striding up to meet them. "Fastest galley service in the 'Fleet. Thank you, ladies,"—gallantly snatching and balancing both trays—"we'll take these."

Chekov's nervousness was forgotten as the four men sat in a circle around four glasses of milk and four covered dishes. Mathematics really was hungry work, and he had so far been very pleased with the food the _Enterprise_ had to offer. Her galley was very skilled, and even the replicators were capable of producing cuisine far above the quality of any cafeteria's. It was therefore with eager anticipation that he removed the lid from his dish. It was with bewilderment, however, that he regarded the contents. His plate, like those of his companions, was stacked with bright red, yellow, and green cubes about one inch on each side. They all appeared to be made out of a soft plastic with the consistency of modeling clay and the slickness of flan. Chekov stared down at the cubes in silence and began to feel a little sick.

"What's the matter?" asked Sulu with his mouth full. "Haven't you had the cubes before?"

"What . . . _are_ . . . these?"

"Cubes," said Riley. "Eat 'em. They're tasty."

"What _kind_ of cubes?"

"Cubes."

"_What kind of cubes_?"

"Just cubes," Riley answered. "You know, cubes."

"I do not know cubes." Emotional disquiet joined Chekov's incipient nausea. Something was _wrong_ about these evasive answers.

"What are you, some kind of a finicky eater?" Kyle teased.

"I am not a finicky eater." Chekov looked up at his companions with smoldering eyes. "I simply like to know what it is that I am eating. Tell me, what is in the cubes?"

The three lieutenants looked at each other in silence. Now Chekov was sure they were hiding something. He glanced from Sulu to Kyle to Riley, meeting each of their nervous eyes in turn. Finally Kyle broke the silence. "Why, they're—er, they're _nutrient_ cubes, of course. Most convenient for eating on the job. The red ones have, er, protein and iron, the yellow have essential fibers and starches, and the green ones, er, the, er, green ones have, er—"

"Vitamins," finished Riley. "Yeah, Vitamin A, Vitamin B12, Vitamin K . . . You know, vitamins."

"I know vitamins," Chekov muttered darkly. But still he did not touch his plate. He could tell the others were lying, hiding something from him about the cubes, and he would not eat until they told him what it was. Automatically he turned to Sulu. The helmsman had answered so many of his other questions, had shown him around and helped him get his bearings on the new ship. Already Chekov thought of him as a mentor and friend. "Mister Sulu," he said earnestly, "please tell me about the cubes."

"Vitamins," said Sulu without looking him in the eye.

Chekov stiffened and spoke with whispered intensity. "I may not know much about this ship. But I know that you are lying. I know that you are hiding something. Tell me about the cubes."

Sulu popped a green cube into his mouth. "We just did."

"Very well. Then tell me the _truth_ about the cubes."

Sulu looked down and took a deep breath. "Look, Chekov, it's . . . ," he began, then trailed off and looked at Riley for help.

Riley picked it up. "Kid, you ever hear the saying 'Ignorance is bliss'?"

Chekov looked confused. "It is . . . an old Russian saying."

"Sure. Well, it applies in this case. Sometimes it's just better not to ask. You get it?"

"No." Chekov's natural curiosity would have prevented him from being satisfied even in the absence of this growing suspicion and dread. "I do not care what it is you are hiding. I want to know what is in the cubes. You must tell me about the cubes."

"Mr Chekov, please stop asking about the cubes," said Kyle.

"Tell me about the cubes!"

Sulu put down the red cube he was holding and gripped Chekov's shoulder, staring intensely into his eyes and speaking with an eerie coolness. "Don't worry about the cubes, Chekov. Eat the cubes, Chekov."

"_Nyet!_" Chekov pulled back his arm with sudden force and glared back at his supposed friend, breathing hard. The shout echoed through the section, and no one spoke or moved.

Finally Kyle broke the tension. "Gentlemen," he said with forced calm, "obviously emotions are running high about the nutrient cubes. I suggest we move on to another topic. How about, er . . ."

Riley snapped his fingers. "The _Enterprise_'s last mission! Boy, was that a success!"

Sulu was instantly himself again. "I'll say. Captain Kirk really outdid himself that time."

Chekov did not join the conversation. Nor did he touch the cubes, or even take a sip of the milk. He sat sullenly, cold fire in his eyes, while the others praised the Captain for his strength, the science officer for his ingenuity, and the CMO for his rather unusual brand of diplomacy, and while they touched on the political and martial implications of the Federation's topaline mining rights.

"But it wasn't entirely a success," Kyle pointed out.

"True," agreed Riley, looking down. "Poor Grant."

"He was a good man," said Sulu, gazing solemnly at a green cube. He felt Chekov's eyes on him and quickly looked up again, but Chekov had caught the stare. The two others had been looking at the cubes too. Chekov had read their eyes. He suddenly remembered a twentieth-century film drama he had viewed once. His eyes widened in horror.

"Dear God," he murmured. "It's people. The cubes are made out of people!" He looked up wildly at the others, waiting for them to contradict him. Instead, they silently avoided his eyes as they continued eating their cubes—dear God, they were still eating the cubes!

"What did we tell you?" asked Riley sadly.

"It would have been better for you not to have asked."

"People," Chekov whispered breathlessly. "The cubes are people."

In relating these events on later occasions, Lieutenant Hikaru Sulu would ascribe to himself such motives as mercy and compassion. At the time, though, he was simply unable to restrain himself from giggling any longer. Riley and Kyle looked at each other, then burst into their own fits of laughter. Chekov's horror faded to perplexity, and then flared into anger.

"You—you tricked me!" he accused the still-hysterical Sulu.

" . . . Yes!" Sulu choked, wiping tears from his eyes. "Yes—we did. Did we ever!" He surrendered to the laughter again for a moment. "But we—look, don't get mad at us. It's a sort of tradition."

"Tra—tradition!?" Chekov sounded a little hysterical himself. "This was the—the worst—the m-most horrific—the—"

"OK, so it's a rotten trick," said Riley. "But we all had it played on us when we were green. It's . . . necessary in a way. Kyle?"

"You see," explained Kyle in his best Radio 4 English, "when a person is on a starship for the first time, he's bound to be nervous about two things in particular: the quality of the food and the risk of death. This particular deception, by giving the victim, well, rather a severe shock, dissipates some of these anxieties."

"Also," put in Sulu, chuckling a little, "it's just a really good trick."

Chekov felt somewhat dizzy. "Then . . . the cubes . . . ?"

"Nutrient cubes," said Kyle.

"Technically, we were telling the truth," said Sulu. "We just . . . allowed your assumptions to run away with you. Eat one."

With a trembling hand, Chekov forced a red cube into his mouth and bit in. He opened his eyes in surprise. It tasted like steak. Fresh, hot, juicy steak. Even the texture was pleasant. He swallowed and reached for a yellow one.

"See? I told you they were tasty."

Chekov gulped down some of the milk and smiled. His anger was soon forgotten in the satisfaction of a good lunch. And, curiously, the lieutenants' trick seemed to have had its effect in reducing his anxiety. That afternoon was his most relaxed yet on board the _Enterprise_. He would continue to enjoy the ship's cuisine, and he would not think too hard about her death rates. The warp drive, meanwhile, was recalibrated more exactly than ever, the transporter circuits were refit so many times they would have to be replaced early, and Kyle's vigilance kept a disaster from befalling Mr. Scott's precious engines.

But it _was_ two months before Pavel Chekov would eat the green cubes.


End file.
